Gloves
by Glacies
Summary: The material on his hands was rough. He knew that. It was his price for selling his freedom.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Jiggy Pepper, or Tegami Bachi or anything associated with it.**

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><p>The material on his hands was harsh.<p>

Rubbing his fingers together, he adjusted his grip on the handlebars of his bike, making sure he was on the path. The bike sped along, leaving behind dust and scattered rocks and disrupted earth. Ignoring the tug on his heart, he sped up, the wheels moving faster as his heartbeat increased. The entire bike seemed innocent, perhaps it was. But the way it was used made it dangerous. If a person other than him tried to start up the bike, the rush of heart leaving to power the bike, just to get the systems up and functioning would kill them. It was the reason that he hated himself so much. He operated this bike, he operated something that would kill people and destroy lives. The material on his hands proved that he was bound to this bike, that he had sold himself.

The material on his hands was harsh.

The material was a symbol of how harsh the job he had taken was. When he had first sold his freedom, chained himself to the bike, the material he had placed upon his hands was rough enough to rip the flesh of his fingers, leaving them raw and bloody. And yet he continued, walking and running and driving to deliver these letters to people, no matter how much his hands hurt and bled when he scrambled over rocks or moved his fingers and grabbed his shindanju. When he had gotten back from the first delivery, he had not gone to the medical ward to get ointment for his hands which were in a bad enough condition to stain the material upon them a reddish-brown color that smelled of iron and salt. Instead, he retreated to the rooms they had provided him with and had remained there, curled up around his hands and attempting to surpress the pain. Dr. Thunderland Jr. would have questioned why he wasn't wearing the standard Letter Bee gloves, and that would have been the end to that.

The material on his hands was harsh.

So was Amberground. Amberground was rough and dangerous and unforgiving. Only the strong survived, the weak were weeded out. Amberground was harsh, dirty, dark. It was a horrible place to live, and Jiggy knew it. He'd seen people so starved they were mere skeletons with sunken eyes and unkempt hair and a frightened look about them. Like they didn't know if they were going to survive the next day. They would all leave eventually, Jiggy knew that as well. Some would leave through wealth and good fortune and move into the land of the rising sun, but most would leave through death and illness and hunger. That was why he never bothered coming home, the people he grew up with had probably left already. It didn't mean he didn't miss them, it was just fact. The only reason that Jiggy hadn't left was because he had never been anywhere.

The material on his hands was harsh.

It saddened him, even if it was only slightly, that all he could see was the darkness, with the exception of the sun. But he turned his back on the sun and headed into the darkness, if only so others could see what he could not. He could do more for himself in the darkness of the country, gaining his sight back every day as he worked himself till he collapsed, just to see the smile on the children's faces and the hatred on their parents faces as they realized that he was with the government. He deserved the hatred, he had sold his freedom. It was justified. How many lives had the government ruined with their sun? He worked for the government, he deserved this.

The material on his hands was harsh.

When he was a child, he used to smell like the pines around Dead End Town. As he grew older, the smell that now haunted him had grown stronger when he was given the bike. Now, all he could smell was the oil, gunpowder, and the smoky smell of burning wood that seemed to follow him around, follow his bike around. He wouldn't be surprised if that was all he could ever smell something hat wasn't burning wood and the oil he was covered in as he sat by and watched his mechanic scold him and begin to fix up the bike again. It was a shame, he had loved to smell when he could. The smells of so many things, mint and fresh cedar wood, the smell of the fresh bread he had worked so hard for just to see Nelli and Nello's smiles, the smell of freshly cut hay and of the sharp wild scent of the winter wind. There were so many scents and they told stories. But he would sacrifice another piece of himself to help others.

The material on his hands was harsh.

It reminded him of why he had sold his freedom. It reminded him that he had work to do, people to meet in fleeting glimpses, smiles to see and children to give some hope for. He had to fight the war for his freedom, and he would win because loosing meant death, and if he was dead he couldn't give the rare smiles that were valued like precious jewels among the people he knew and Gaichuu to kill. He could live in a darkened world with the scent of fires and guns and oil around him and in his nose. He could live with the material on his hands, as a chained dog to this bike. But as he clung to his bike, which was the equivalent to his jailer and his jail, drenched from the rain and the cold and Harry nowhere to be found, he realized something. Stopping the bike upon a ridge facing the artificial sun, he pulled off his gloves and wiped the moisture from his eyes.

The skin on his hands was even harsher.

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><p><strong>Authors Note:<strong>

**...and I was listening to a happy song and was like something along the lines of, "RAWR, MY LIFE NEEDS MORE ANGST."**

**I think I'm the first author in the entire community here to write a oneshot purely about Jiggy with no other character appearing in it. Am I? I don't know.**

**Jiggy needs more love.**


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